


Lessons

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossdressing, D/s, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has devised a new punishment for a disobedient Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

   “Professor, I-”

   “Be quiet.”

   “Sorry sir.”

   “I am aware that you feel humiliated, but I wish you to understand… humiliating you is not the aim of this game, my dear Moran. You must merely sit there until you have learned that it is most unwise to disobey my orders, especially when those orders relate to your wellbeing.”

   “But I-”

   “Sebastian.” Moriarty narrowed his eyes.

   “Sorry, sir.” Moran bowed his head.

   The professor watched him – noted the tightening of his jaw; the clenching of Moran’s fingers. The gunman was still angry and he was embarrassed and Moran – though he could be unnervingly still and composed, sometimes for many hours, when he was on a mission – hated pointless idleness and he did have a temper that was often easily stirred. That temper was provoked now by the professor’s treatment of him, which he perceived (quite wrongly) to be unfair. He would submit though. That he unclenched his fists a moment later told Moriarty that, even if he would remain rather sullen about it.

   “Women, Moran, may have their uses,” Moriarty told him.

   Moran said nothing, though judging by his smirk perhaps he was considering the uses he personally usually had for women.

   “I am not of the opinion that all women are inherently weak. Indeed, I have encountered some who are very strong-willed.”

   Moran glanced up at him, wondering where this discourse was going. The professor usually showed little interest in women, in any sense of the word ‘interest’.

   “Miss Adler, for instance.”

   “ _Her_ ,” Moran said in a leaden tone.

   Moriarty smiled as he stepped closer to Moran, running a hand through the sniper’s hair – the first time he had touched Moran in more than two hours.

   “Professor, please, let me up now; let me take this damned thing off.”

   “Not yet; I don’t believe you have learned your lesson adequately yet.”

   “Just hit me then; thrash me.”

   “No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” Moriarty crouched down suddenly, so that he was almost eye to eye with Moran. “My dear Sebastian,” he said, cupping Moran’s bearded jaw in one hand.  “Do _you_ think that women are inherently weak?”

   “Sir, I don’t…” Moran twisted his face away slightly, and the professor knew precisely who he was thinking about. His mother. His feisty mother, whose spirit had been all but broken by his abusive, bullying father, worn down over time until she was dead. He knew too which one of his parents Moran believed was the weak cowardly one, despite his inability to ever quite step out of Augustus Moran’s shadow. “No sir.”

   “Then why do you protest so much over being made to dress like one?”

   “Because… it’s improper! It’s probably not even legal!”

    Moriarty laughed. “You’re a murderer, Moran; a sodomite too. You do not quibble over those actions.”

   Moran screwed up his face. “That’s different, _sir._ ”

    The professor continued to chuckle as he stood up again. “I merely want to see you obey orders, Moran. _All_ of my orders.”

   “Wearing a damned dress?”

   “Yes.” Moriarty, standing by the desk now, cast a glance back at Moran. It had been interesting, acquiring a dress that would fit the sniper. Still it didn’t quite fit him properly. When he had been standing the skirts hung on him no better than they would on a scarecrow and if Moran moved too much he’d probably burst a few seams in the bodice, although the corset he wore under it helped a little. “If you cannot obey my other instructions, then I must ensure that you _are_ still capable of obeying me.”

    Moran had, after some initial grumbling and cursing, at least put the dress on, after allowing the professor to lace him into the corset first. That had also caused much swearing, although Moriarty (giving a pointed jerk to the laces that caused Moran to gasp sharply) had reminded him that this was not the first time Moran had been attired so. "That other time was just a drunken bet sir!" Moran had protested, but all protestations were useless.

    The corset gave him at least some semblance of a waist, though absolutely nothing about Moran truly could suggest anything other than that he was a man wearing women’s clothing and also that he was not at all happy about this. Clearly he still did not truly understand the point of the game however. Moriarty _could_ have struck him. Once if Moriarty had hit him Moran would have hit back, disengaging his brain and only reacting like a vicious animal. Now though the nature of their relationship had so evolved that the colonel would accept such treatment from the professor without protest; without fighting; without even trying to defend himself unless he thought his very life was in danger. This was primarily why Moriarty so very rarely did use physical punishments in their games. He knew his own limits and he knew Moran’s, and that Moran could tolerate much physical pain. He had no desire to ever damage the gunman though and he knew that far more effective results could be gained by using more creative punishments, and quite often far gentler ones. Moran was far more afraid of a soft caress than of a vicious blow, after all.

    Commanding him to wear the dress though… it was something so unusual; so far removed from what Moran would usually do. It was not about degradation but about ensuring that the colonel remained capable of following even the strangest instructions. Commanding him to kneel on the floor and not to move was the next part, and the one in fact Moran had much more difficulty with. He found it hard ever to settle unless he was entirely focused on a task. Moriarty considered though that the presence of the dress made the experience that bit more unusual, helping to focus Moran on his punishment, especially with the corset that constricted his body adding an extra physical reminder of the professor’s control.

    “Sir, please,” the colonel said. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me, but please…”

   Moriarty regarded him for a moment, considering this. Moran _had_ been on his knees on the floor for a long time now, and Moriarty did have a private meeting with some of his students in a little while. He moved to sit down in his chair. “Come here,” he said. “Remain on your knees though.”

    “Yes, Professor.” Moran crawled, and that was a sight to behold: the rangy, bearded gunman crawling on hands and knees across the floor in a flowing blue dress. Moriarty idly contemplated pushing him over the desk, throwing up his skirts and just fucking him, but discarded the idea an instant later. This was not about sex. It had never been about sex, and he didn’t want Moran thinking he was rewarding him now either by sating his desires.

   “Sit here.” Moriarty indicated the space on the floor between his legs. Moran positioned himself, paying no attention to how much he crushed his skirts as he did so. He didn’t care. “Closer.” Moran shifted even closer, so that he was now leaning against the professor’s right leg, his head against his knee. “Good boy.” Moriarty touched his hand to Moran’s face again, running his thumb over his cheekbone. “I would never wish to break you, Sebastian.”

   “I know that, sir.”

   “There is a certain amount of delicious friction that comes from our clashes – when you resist my more _personal_ orders; when you express your discontentment with them. I would not wish to lose that spark, but when it comes to your health… I _will_ have your obedience, Moran.”

   “Yes sir.” Moran still watched him with resentment simmering within him, but his desire to obey still overcame his desire to fight. His posture was stiff, even sitting there – part his military training and part from the corset.

    Moriarty reached down and gently drew up Moran’s left arm. With the short sleeves on the dress his arms were both bare except for a bandage around his left wrist which concealed the cause of their present situation. After Moran had acquired a knife-wound in a minor scuffle, Moriarty had instructed him to have it tended to by a doctor. Instead Moran had gone off and stitched it up himself, and then he’d lied to Moriarty about it.

   Moran flinched a little at the movement but he knew as well as Moriarty did that the professor could have hurt him much more. Instead he only lifted Moran’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, very gently. This though, to Moriarty’s amusement, made the gunman grimace. “Up,” he said, tugging on Moran’s hand now. “Up here.”

   Moran stood, though Moriarty swiftly grabbed his backside and yanked him over on top of him so that Moran half-sprawled over him, his knees pressed either side of Moriarty’s hips. The skirts rucked up around Moran’s waist a little, and Moriarty trailed his fingers up the back of Moran’s thigh.

   Crouched over him like that, his hands on Moriarty’s shoulders, the colonel still looked faintly predatory, Moriarty noted. Strangely the effect seemed only heightened, not diminished, by his attire, perhaps because of the dress’s novelty and brightness, as opposed to Moran in his usual rather drab suits.

   “My dear Moran,” he said softly, being deliberately provocative, “the colour of the dress really does set off your eyes beautifully.”

   Moran practically growled as he seized the professor by the chin and tipped up his face to kiss him. It was rough, beard against beard; skin against skin; tongues and teeth meeting aggressively. It went on for some moments, only stopped when Moriarty gripped Moran by his injured wrist and squeezed, just hard enough to make him gasp and break the kiss.

   “Now, now, you are getting quite carried away,” he chided, aware of Moran’s increasing arousal under the skirts.

   “Sir,” Moran said and his voice was a bit breathless, whether from the kiss or the corset, though the additional strangled cry was almost certainly the result of Moriarty slipping his hand under the skirt, between Moran’s spread legs.

   “Just what kind of a master would I be if I acquiesced to _your_ urges when you have been so disobedient, hmm?”

   “I’ve done what you asked.”

   “Yes, and that was your punishment, which was thoroughly deserved. Yet now you assume you deserve a reward also?”

   Moran looked away. “No sir.”

   “Good.” With his other hand Moriarty gripped Moran’s shoulder, dragging him closer to whisper in his ear. “You _don’t_ deserve it.” Yet under the skirt he gave Moran a squeeze of the kind that made him let out a groan and cry out:

   “Oh god, Professor _._ ”

   “Yes?” Moriarty said, as if he was entirely oblivious to the cause of Moran’s exclamation even while he continued the movements of his hand.

   Moran glared at him. “You know what.”

   Moriarty raised his eyebrows at Moran, inviting him to speak further. Moran looked back at him, lips slightly parted as if to say something more, but he wouldn’t. He’d not beg for what he wanted. Being put in the ill-fitting dress and the too-tight corset set against the professor in his comfortable suit was bad enough but he’d rather be ordered to lick dirt off Moriarty’s boots than be reduced to begging right now.

   He _almost_ changed his mind though when Moriarty shifted the angle of his hand movements, making Moran unwittingly buck against his hand and let out a hissing breath through his teeth.

    Moriarty had amusement in his eyes as he sat there, watching Moran’s reactions intently – the tensing of his muscles; his panting breaths; the dilation of his pupils. “My dear Moran,” he said. “You look thoroughly debauched.”

   “Jesus Christ,” Moran cursed as Moriarty punctuated his words with a particularly clever swipe of his thumb. He clenched his fingers into the professor’s jacket.

   “Like a Whitechapel harlot.”

   “Jesus.” Moran thrust against him again, falling forward as he did so, so that his face was pressed to Moriarty’s neck.

   “Perhaps I should whore you out, hmm? Threepence a go.”

   “Sir.”

   “Would you enjoy that?”

   “No sir, I…” He _knew_ that the professor would not let him finish - knew it as surely as he knew day followed night - even though he was so close now.

   “And you _are_ very skilled with that pretty mouth of yours.”

   “Sir…”

   “Or perhaps I should just sell you to the circus, as the bearded lady.” Moriarty laughed at him. More importantly, he’d stopped touching Moran.

   “Bastard,” Moran said, against Moriarty’s neck; against his pulse. If he’d still been the wild creature he was when Moriarty had taken him in – a hair’s breadth away from complete and utter self-destruction - he might have thought about sinking his teeth into the professor’s throat; might even have ripped and torn until he tasted blood. He didn’t now though; he only panted against Moriarty’s skin and then made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and laughter.

   “Language, my dear Moran.” Moriarty tapped him smartly on the backside.

   “Oh I’m sorry, you are a total and utter bastard, _sir_.” Moran straightened up. “If you do not intend to let me finish, may I at least take off this bloody-”

   Moriarty jerked him back into another kiss, one much less violent than the first. “All right,” he said at last. “You may go and change.” Moran slid off his lap but hesitated in moving away when Moriarty continued. “You may not, however, relieve yourself.”

   “But-”

   “I do not think your punishment is yet complete.” Moriarty’s gaze drifted away from him, apparently shifting to some other topic entirely. “In fact, I think that we might need to go over the matter again later, to ensure that you have learned your lesson properly.”

   Moran gently bit his lower lip as he contemplated this. “Yes sir,” he said after a pause.

   Moriarty glanced back at him and smiled. “Now go; go and change, before my students get here.” He waved Moran away, off into the next room, tracking the gunman’s movements. Yes, even from behind certainly nobody could mistake him for a woman with that gait, he thought. Moran could be elegant when he wanted to be but there was definitely nothing ladylike about him.

   He turned his attention to some of his papers, though he was not at all surprised when Moran stopped in the doorway and turned around to look back at him.

   “Professor,” he said thoughtfully.

   “Yes, Moran?” Moriarty said, without looking at him.

   “Threepence?” Moran said incredulously. “I’m worth more than bloody threepence, Professor. The things I can do with my tongue…”

   Moriarty scribbled something on a paper. “We shall discuss this later,” he said.

   “Right, sir,” Moran said, sounding slightly confused.

   Moriarty did not look up from his papers still. “I will expect a demonstration, of course,” he remarked. “To make me re-evaluate your monetary worth.” His gaze drifted up to meet Moran’s, mildly enough, but there was the hint – or the promise – of something more extreme to come later in the look he gave Moran.

   Moran grinned wickedly. “Yes sir!” he said.


End file.
